


A Matter of Mission

by forcefields



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24421981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcefields/pseuds/forcefields
Summary: Evie Frye races across the roof of an imploding factory, the locked box in her backpack key to turning the tide in the war between Assassins and Templars - if she can get away from the persistent Lucy Thorne.
Relationships: Evie Frye/Lucy Thorne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	A Matter of Mission

She was flying, legs cycling, half-prepared for the coming impact. Holding her breath, based on a hypothesis, some time ago confirmed, that it would make for a steadier landing, the black-hooded figure brought her right hand forward and knees to her now unmoving chest. She would have landed perfectly, as she nine out of ten times consistently did, if the bumped black roofing, her flooring, hadn't spurted into the sky, carried by a spray of hot white cloud.

Evie Frye, an intellectual amongst her peers, spared a squinting look to either immediate side of the exploded panel. Breath still trapped inside her lungs, she threw her momentum towards the right. She landed messily, smacking into the surface in a plank position, an agitating consequence of throwing one's self away from a hot spray of - whilst unlikely to be death, certainly - danger. Inhaling shallowly, wary the cloud in proximity could contain more than steam, she rolled over before reclining into a crouch. To be certain she hadn't royally fucked up the mission, she quickly felt her backpack and exhaled a little deeper.

_Good. The box is still in there._

For the time being, there was only one spray of steam in the sky. Evie surveyed the roof-space; if the former point remained the case for, say, the next two minutes at most, she could make a clear sprint to the end of the space, and with a hop, skip and a jump – more or less – from wall, to wall, to ground, she could sidle into the shadows of an alleyway. It sounded like a cliché exit, yes, but there was a good reason it was cliché.

Evie sprang forward off her heels. Any time taken stood still was a waste of time taken, even if it were for the better (in this case, of her escaping, with a bit of luck, unharmed). Atop that, as much as she criticised her twin brother for the same, Evie not so secretly preferred movement over mind, too. Blessed with the brilliant, self-taught and improved tactility of something near super-humanity, she’d survived falls higher and assaults stronger than what your average person could endure. To some, that likely sounded like a horror story of a lifestyle – but to Evie, and to her brothers and sisters in arms, anything else would be alien.

She’d come close to slipping her feet, tipping back onto her heels and bringing herself down onto her back for the slide from roof to roof – the second, she would’ve proceeded to grasp, turning herself towards the opposing wall – but fate decided against it.

A redheaded, sneering fate, to be precise.

Careering into Evie from her right – which would not have happened, had Evie been keeping check on her surroundings; she cursed herself inwardly – the Templar agent sent them both to the floor-or-roof, crashing awkwardly in a brief entanglement of limbs, a pair of hands from which then attempted to strangle the Assassin. Quick on the recovery, however, Evie launched her aggressor off with a sharp, double-booted kick to the chest.

As her opponent flew a small distance back, she jumped to her feet. And should’ve ran for it in the opportunity afforded – but alas, she did not, for the indominable Lucy Thorne, in one unspeakable way or another, had a hold on Evie that the Assassin could not shake. She’d never admitted this aloud, of course, not even to her best friend and (not so) absolute confidante, Bridget Turner.

Perhaps Evie was frowning at that moment, as she envisioned the likely scenario playing out right now, which involved their leader, Henry Green, attempting to reassure medic Bridget that, no, Evie was certainly not dead simply because she was three minutes late.

_Three minutes late is three minutes too long. Father would not have had it._

It was a good thing, in that case, Henry was a more forgiving man.

_Though perhaps not if I take_ another _three minutes to reach the drop point._

“Ms. Frye.” Lucy’s voice, cool, but amused, snapped her back to reality, “Of course it would be you.”

She was ten years Evie’s senior, but certainly not one to be underestimated. Like her fellow brethren, she dressed without subtlety – in a black _dress,_ nonetheless, with a furry-necked jacket and heeled boots of matching shade, and a purple scarf perfectly tucked into her jacket’s collar, as striking in contrast with the rest of her outfit as her ginger hair, tied painfully tight in a bun. Evie might’ve grimaced at the hairline _clearly_ screaming for help if she wasn’t so focused on keeping distance between them. On a related side-note, she, herself, wore a bun, but kept it loose, for, given her work, it was always up, and she wasn’t in favour of a premature bald patch.

“Oh, Ms. Thorne,” Evie replied, a little playfully (she took her job seriously to the nth degree, after all), “I thought you'd sound less disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” Lucy took a step to Evie’s left, the start of a taunting prowl, “The last thing I am is disappointed. It’s been a while since I was last granted a chance to kill you.”

Smiling despite herself, Evie began a steady step to Lucy’s right, turning her enemy’s advances to a mutual circling. “Ready to fail again? I wonder what Starrick’ll say this time? Or does he just lock you in the basement for a week – or, three, given the last time we saw each other –”

Loud and sharp, Lucy scoffed a chuckle, and stopped moving. Evie followed suit.

_Any second now._

“Give me the box, you insufferable girl.”

“Manners, Ms. Thorne?” Evie raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised a woman of your educational history –”

Lucy cut off her retort, which, she’d internally admit, struck an annoyed chord in Evie.

“Enough chat!” the Templar barked, “It won’t help you!”

The Assassin swiftly relaxed whatever rise in temperament had been provoked, however, and responded with a mocking pout of acceptance, “Right. Fighting, then?”

Lucy charged at her without delay. She hadn’t quite anticipated that, feeling her features expand in surprise, and swayed violently left to avoid a swinging hook. Lucy spun – unnecessarily – it was only for show; as Evie knew well, she was all about _that_ – before extending her right leg, the impressive wedged heel she wore barely an inch from impacting Evie’s stomach as she quick-stepped backwards.

Evie also knew, better than any other fact circulating her brain, that Lucy was fast, and moved with an angelic quality best represented by her lack of sound when striking. The only noise which came alongside each attack was the sharp whistle of air, its flow disrupted by the precise pushes intended to puncture; luckily, thus far, none of them had.

There was a strategy in mind now, likely for the both of them, but in this context, Evie’s particularly. In a sense, like a moth to a flame, she drew Lucy closer to her, but, of course, never close enough to touch – and ever closer to the roof’s edge.

“It’s agitating,” Lucy spoke fast between breaths, “how easy you continue to evade me.”

“There’s that eloquence I know and love!” Evie lunged left, and slightly away from her destination, “Perhaps you ought to try waiting between strikes.”

A short hum – _was that, of agreement?_ – sounded, and no matter her many years of training, initiated when she was a young girl, the Assassin was utterly unprepared for the Templar’s change of tactics. It was all rolled up into four short, successful moves. Evie might’ve cursed herself for not reacting, for not continuing to evade – but she could barely think after the second action, which, after her opponent jumped forward with an uncharacteristic jaggedness, saw Lucy grab her by the arm. For the third, Evie was suddenly reeled in, body pressed against her enemy’s, their faces almost touching; the fourth had her temporarily immobilised, as Lucy used her vacant hand to twist Evie’s vacant arm behind her back.

The Assassin released a short, embarrassing gasp of a breath.

“Give me the box,” Lucy hissed, “and I won’t break your back.”

“Charming.” Evie answered, hyper-aware of the lips opposite hers, and – _for God’s sake, Evie_ – trying her best not to take a glance at them, her subconscious begging so, “No.”

Following momentary null movement, she threw herself back, aiming to escape with momentum, but Lucy drew her back sharply, digging her nails in. Evie did not make a sound, though she felt like making several – elongated, and derogatory. Yet, simultaneously – _worryingly_ – there was a part of herself whom didn’t want to be let go. In fact, that part of herself did not desire for distance betwixt them whatsoever.

She wanted to close the gap.

Evie glared something fierce into her enemy’s amused eyes. If not for her trained hearing, she, like said enemy, wouldn’t have heard an increasing, quiet pop and buck of metal beside them. A couple panels of roofing were beginning to jitter. The factory had blessed her with a swift-coming advantage, and she had to take it. So, Evie did the only thing she deemed possible of breaking Lucy’s concentration.

She kissed her.

It was a short, albeit, shamefully, lingering, kiss, but when Evie broke herself away, feeling as hot as if she were in a sauna (yes, she’d been in one… once), the action had done more than just ‘the trick’. Furthermore, she could’ve sworn the woman, who looked upon her with eyes blown wide, had started to kiss her back.

_The_ mission _, Evie._

Stamping on Lucy’s foot did more than break her opponent’s concentration. Lucy barked in pain and rage, and, grip loosening on her semi-captive, Evie decided to return the favour, taking her strongly by the shoulders and bidding a brief, unaccented “au revoir”, before throwing the Templar towards a rattling roof.

She’d barely crossed a foot from their previous position when the exploding sound of steam came, paired with a shout from the enemy. Evie didn’t look back – however, despite what she had been trained and taught, she hoped Lucy was alive.

“ _ASSASSIN!_ ”

_But of course, she was._

She ran through what felt like a million last retorts in her mind, but found none that fitted, and with Lucy quickly clambering back, and enough precious time burnt already, Evie broke into a sprint for roof’s edge.

As she launched herself off, painfully impacted the edge opposite and made quick work of a descent into the long-awaited alleyway, Evie’s body prickled with goose bumps most from, amongst all the other sensations, the lingering presence of Lucy’s.

_It was a matter of making a successful mission._

_That’s all._

A frown slipped as she tunnelled into the alley. Somehow, she found she disagreed with herself.


End file.
